


Everything We Lost

by Sourboi



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Feels, Found Family, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25721368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourboi/pseuds/Sourboi
Summary: (Not) surprisingly, Jim's death had an affect on everyone. This is the aftermath.
Comments: 37
Kudos: 47





	1. Scotty

By any standards, Jim was a good captain. He followed missions through to the fullest extent, and performed miracles to keep his crew safe. He was loyal, he was smart, and he was damn good in a fight. Unfortunately, all these qualities culminated in one problem: he rarely, if ever, listened to advice. The only one who could get Jim to even pause for a moment was Commander Spock, and even then there was a likely chance Jim would brush it off. Doctor McCoy had spent many an hour in the mess hall bemoaning Jim’s inattentiveness to his own health to anyone who would listen. And Scotty? There was no doubt Jim valued his knowledge and his skills, but when the Captain got an idea in his head, there was no stopping him. More times than he could count, Scotty had been asked to chose between Jim and the ship they both loved— not without good cause, mind, but still. A heart wrenching choice nonetheless. The Enterprise had been flung through time, invaded by infernal fluffy balls of death, nearly flown into a sun, covered in purple slime, and held hostage by any number of odd creatures. Each time, Scotty had put his faith in Jim. Until he couldn’t anymore.

He’d thought that was the end of it. Sitting in that overly-loud, overly-colorful bar, getting piss drunk while Jim was off running some insane military operation for Admiral Marcus. For all the times Jim had dismissed Scotty’s advice or ignored his recommendations, this had been the last straw. And it wasn’t as though Scotty couldn’t understand. He’d seen the way Jim looked after the attack on Headquarters. The dead, desperate look in his eyes. But that just made Jim’s rejection sting further. Scotty had only been trying to help keep Jim out of trouble, and he’d gotten sacked for his efforts. Well, not technically sacked— it had been his resignation, after all. A resignation he regretted giving with every downed drink, and at the same time stubbornly assured himself that he’d been in the right to hand over.

And then that bloody call came in, and Scotty had gotten on a ship (or, rather, Kenneser had gotten him onto a ship and flown out while Scotty slept off his drinks), and they’d found that blasted station with the blasted top-secret dreadnought, and everything had just kept spiraling out of control. The sabotage, the man he’d been ordered to stun and who then in turn stunned him. Admiral Marcus’ horrible death. And still, when it had really mattered, Jim still didn’t listen to him. 

“We wouldn’t survive the climb,” Scotty had told him, tearfully. This would be the end of the Enterprise, and maybe her crew, too. He was scared, terrified to pieces really, but also a bit proud. He’d be going down his his ship, as any Chief Engineer worth their bolts would.

Jim had answered him then, something low and defiant, and before Scotty could process the words he felt a sharp pain in his jaw and his vision went dark.

When he’d woken up, he was strapped to a chair, and Jim was huddled on the ground on the other side of the thick, glass radiation doors, drawing in harsh, ragged breaths. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. Once again Jim hadn’t listened to him and this time he’d paid the price.

The aftermath of Khan’s attack was a blur of color and noise. The Enterprise had barely been able to limp back into port. There was so much damage, both to the ship and the crew. The damage to San Francisco was even worse. Scotty got a glimpse of the entirety of it as he’d taken a shuttle back to the surface, two weeks after the attack. A streak of buildings, collapsed like children’s building blocks, a mile long and nearly as wide. Scotty had been pointedly ignoring most of the news about the attack, but as he looked out onto the wreckage of the city, his mind automatically started calculating death tolls. That building might’ve had five hundred people in it, that one maybe seven hundred. By the time they landed, his total was over ten thousand. He closed his eyes as the shuttle made contact with the landing pad and thanked God that Jim was not one of that number.

He expected Jim to be asleep when he arrived at the hospital. It was a miracle he was alive at all, but he still had a lot of healing to do. Doctor McCoy had said that coming back from the dead was like ‘running a marathon with cement bricks for feet’. To be completely fair, the good doctor looked near death himself; the bruises of shadows under his eyes were still fading, and patches of stubble sprouted down his jaw. When Scotty quietly knocked on the open door, McCoy jumped so hard he nearly knocked over a bottle of medication.

“Jesus,” he swore, straightening. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone like that? Gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Scotty shifted uncomfortably. His uniform was hot, even in the cold hospital air, and he’d never quite mastered the art of handling Doctor McCoy in any mood. “I’m just here to…” he gestured vaguely, hopefully conveying his intention to visit. 

“Right.” McCoy glanced down at an apparently sleeping Jim. A small sigh escaped him. “Go ahead and take a seat. No telling when he’ll wake up; sleeps like—” _the dead_ , Scotty’s mind supplied. “A bleedin’ log,” McCoy finished half-heartedly. With a tired nod, McCoy gathered up a tray and shuffled out. Hopefully to get some rest.

There were a number of chairs in the room— one in particular was pulled up right next to Jim’s bed, where no doubt a certain Vulcan spent a lot of time holding vigil. Scotty ended up by the window, with his back to the city. Jim did indeed appear to be sleeping deeply, so Scotty pulled out his PADD to work remotely on repairs. It was easy to get lost in the work. This part of the hospital was blessedly quiet, unlike the Engine Room, and the bright sunlight streaming through the window was a welcome alternative to the harsh fluorescents of the Enterprise. He could’ve stayed there for hours, chipping away at his mountain of tasks.

The soft rustle of cloth, followed by an even softer groan, roused Scotty from his work. Jim’s eyes opened, fixing first on the ceiling and then to the seat next to the bed. When neither yielded information, they strayed further, finally fixing on Scotty himself. 

Scotty sucked in a sharp breath. He remembered how Jim’s eyes had looked on the other side of that glass, how they’d looked when he’d finally opened the doors and let the medics load the captain onto the stretcher. Dull, lifeless; much more gray than blue. As if all the color had been drained away. Now they were bright, nearly matching the bright sky outside the window. They looked alive. 

“Hey, Scotty,” Jim croaked. He sounded about as bad as he looked, but he gave Scotty a lopsided smile anyway. It was that stupid smile he always brought out when he knew he was right, when he knew he was in over his head and had the perfect, impossible plan to escape. 

Scotty answered, sounding equally ragged. “Jim.” And then, once that one word had escaped, he found he couldn’t stop. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? I told you having those torpedoes on board was a bad idea, I told you that bloody mission was insane. I told you what would happen if you tried to fix the core. And you didn’t listen! You never bloody listen to me, Jim! Not once! You can’t just keep doing this-- one of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed!” He realized what he’d said the second after he said it. He felt his breath catch in his throat. “I’m sorry. I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Jim said quietly, putting an end to the second, more apologetic half of Scotty’s rant. He sounded oddly calm, even a little amused. The cocky smile faded into something more sincere and less confident, but always trusting. 

“It’s not okay, though, is it? I… I never should’ve left the Enterprise. I know you didn’t want me there, but maybe if I hadn’t gone off—”

“Then you wouldn’t have found Marcus’ secret military base, and the Enterprise would probably be a billion bits of shrapnel floating on the edge of the neutral zone. You saved my life, Scotty. You saved everyone on board. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Jim must’ve been spending more time with Commander Spock than Scotty had realized, because his logic was sound. Nevertheless, guilt wormed a hole in his chest. On another plane of existence, or maybe just in his own head, those cold, gray-blue eyes stared at nothing beyond Scotty’s shoulder. “I just wish—” there were so many things Scotty wished, he couldn’t list them all. “I just wish you’d listen to me for once. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do!”

“Clearly not enough.” Scotty shook his head. “I can understand why you accepted my resignation at the start— I’m not saying I agree, but I understand. But I told you what would happen if you went in to fix the core, and you did it anyway. You didn’t even tell me, Jim. You just socked me and left me to wake up to—” His voice cracked and he broke off, not needing to finish the sentence. He couldn’t look at Jim any more without seeing that far-off gaze, so instead he picked an innocuous corner of the room and fixed on that instead. “I thought you were dead. I watched you die. And aye, I’m grateful you saved the Enterprise, but God. I don’t know if I could’ve lived with the cost.”

His gaze flickers back to Jim at the confession, just briefly. Their very first mission together, defeating Nero and his ship, had cemented their friendship, but it had never been personal. Not like this. They’d danced around it with shore-leave flings and drinking games and long nights bouncing ideas back and forth in engineering, and they’d never come close to saying it out loud. That they cared about each other; that they were part of a team. Maybe that’s why Scotty’s own resignation had cut so deeply. Its acceptance had felt like Jim was severing everything they’d built together over the years. And then again, when he’d knocked Scotty out and climbed into the warp core chamber alone. 

For a long time Jim didn’t say anything. Scotty stared hard at the corner he’d chosen, pointedly not looking at Jim and blinking back tears. He shouldn’t be crying. Jim was alive. He would get better; he’d come back to the Enterprise, where (hopefully) Scotty would be waiting. But that’s exactly why he was wiping furiously at his eyes. They’d come so close to losing everything. He could still feel that dread from when he’d opened his eyes and seen the flashing sign on the panel in front of him. _Caution: dangerous levels of radiation in warp core entry chamber._

When Scotty dared to look again at the Captain, he thought Jim had fallen asleep. His head was no longer turned towards Scotty, instead facing straight up at the ceiling. But his eyes were open, gleaming. Alive.

“I’ve been a real ass, huh?” Jim whispered. It was a realization, not an accusation. Scotty didn’t dare speak, so Jim continued. “I didn’t realize… all I could think about was that I was responsible. I’m the Captain, Scotty. I’ve got to be responsible, no matter what. And that includes all the shit I’ve dumped on you.”

“No, Jim, it’s—”

“Scotty, please.” Jim closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and fixed that piercing gaze back on Scotty. It felt like being kicked in the chest. “Being the Captain means being responsible for the ship and the crew, in every sense of the word. I should’ve listened to you more, even before all this. I mean. Hiding the Enterprise underwater? What was I thinking?” His attempt at humor fell flat in the thick silence between Scotty’s chair and the bed. “You never had to take my shit, not once. Remember when we first met? I dropped out of the sky and hijacked your transporter pad, got you stuck in that coolant tube? You didn’t have to come with me, or listen when I told you not to tell Spock how we’d gotten there. But you did. You always put up with too much of my crap, and I couldn’t blame you for walking away when you did, not in a million years. And I’m sorry, for that and for everything else.”

The short speech seemed to take a lot out of Jim. He physically deflated back into the bed, eyes threatening to slip shut. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest kept the panic in Scotty’s chest at bay. “I’m sorry too, Jim,” he murmured. 

A smile danced around the edges of Jim’s lips. “Already forgiven and forgotten.”

“And, my resignation…?”

“It’s up to you, Scotty, but there’s always a place for you on the Enterprise.”

“I’d like that very much, if you’ll have me.”

Jim gave a small nod, clearly exhausted. His eyes finally closed and a second later Doctor McCoy bustled back into the room. He didn’t look any better than he had when he’d left, but he moved with more energy to check Jim’s vitals and fuss with the bedsheets. 

“Alright, time’s up. You can chat with Scotty again tomorrow.”

“Aw, Bones,” Jim whined, but it was halfhearted at best. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“Don’t make me bring out the hypo,” Bones threatened. 

Taking the hint, Scotty stood and tucked his PADD under his arm. “Actually, I’m heading back up to the Enterprise to finish the repairs. But I’ll see you again when she’s ready to launch.” It was a question, framed as certainty. He _would_ see Jim again. 

“Before that,” Jim promised. Mumbled, really. He was sliding back into sleep, and Doctor McCoy was glaring daggers at Scotty. The man was a good friend and an even better doctor; factors that combined to make Scotty fear for anyone who crossed him or Jim. 

“Doctor McCoy,” Scotty said, nodding to the man. Then, more warmly, more softly, “Jim. It was good seeing you. And thank you.”

No reply came, not even a mumble. Only the quietly beeping monitors followed Scotty out of the room. Once he was outside, Scotty allowed himself to breathe easy. He’d seen Jim for himself, now. Alive. And for once, Jim had listened to him. By any standards Jim was a good Captain, but damn if he wasn’t a bloody great friend.


	2. Sulu and Chekov

When Spock was called down to engineering, they knew Jim was hurt. When Spock returned, and his voice cracked with rage as he commanded them to search the enemy ship for signs of life, and Uhura stood by him rapidly losing her strict composure, they knew it was bad. Later, they were told Jim almost died. They knew, just from looking at Spock’s stony features and Leonard’s shaking hands that it was so much worse than _almost_.

After Sulu called Ben, and ensured that he and Demora are alright even though they were on the other side of the country visiting Ben’s parents, he headed over to Chekov’s apartment. They lived close to each other, partially due to coincidence and partially due to the fact that he might be a wiz-kid but Chekov was honestly too damn young to be living by himself in a foreign country. 

He knocked three times before the door opened softly. The Russian on the other side stared at some point near Sulu’s feet, although he recognized his co-navigator immediately. “Hello,” he mumbled.

“Pavel.” Sulu leaned into the narrow crack of the doorway, studying Chekov’s face. He looked pale, and his eyes were rimmed with patterns of red and purple. “Hey. I thought I’d swing by, make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Chekov answered automatically. Too automatically. He still wouldn’t look at Sulu. 

“Are you sure?” Sulu pressed again.

Chekov nodded timidly. “Yes, Mr. Sulu. Thank you.”

It was the Mr. Sulu that forced his hand. They never used formalities off duty; sometimes they didn’t even bother to use them on duty. Working together as they had, building the kind of trust and synchronization needed to manage the Enterprise, plus Sulu’s instinct to take Chekov under his wing, had created a unique sort of relationship. Not quite parental, but not quite platonic either. And it was that that allowed Sulu to push the open the door Chekov was trying desperately to close.

“No, you’re not. Pavel, you don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay.” Chekov shook his head, but he didn’t try to close the door again. He just stood there in the doorway, staring off somewhere without seeing anything. Sulu kept his hand on the door, waiting. “It’s okay,” he repeated softly. “Can I come in? Please?”

For a second, he thought Chekov would say no and try to close the door again. But one long, achingly held-breath later, Chekov stepped back. The door swung open.

Being in Starfleet allowed its members a nice kind of life. It wasn’t fancy, especially for Ensigns like Chekov, but they weren’t living in cramped, smelly apartments with drug dealers for neighbors. Sulu had been to Chekov’s apartment a few times, when they were in San Francisco. The kid usually kept it tidy, with lots of pictures of his family and a fully stocked fridge because his mother and grandmother would kill him if they discovered he wasn’t eating enough. The apartment Sulu walked into now looked nothing like that. Almost all the blinds were closed, obscuring the view of the wrecked San Francisco skyline. The few bowls in the sink indicated the kid hadn’t been eating at all, and the books usually placed neatly on the shelves were spread over every available surface. 

Chekov stood awkwardly in the kitchen, clearly waiting for Sulu to take the lead. He was barely twenty, but now he looked more like the seventeen-year-old kid Sulu had first met. The last time Sulu had seen him anywhere this shaken had been after the destruction of Vulcan, when Amanda Grayson had died despite Chekov’s best efforts. For weeks after, the kid’s hands had shaken anytime he went near the transporter room controls. Now, his whole body was trembling.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I can make us some tea,” Sulu suggested. Chekov obediently shuffled over to the kitchen table and slumped into one of the chairs. Originally Sulu intended to heat up some of the black tea tucked away behind the coffee, but another box caught his eye. A few minutes later he joined Chekov at the table, bearing two mugs of steaming, sweet sbiten. It would be nowhere near as good as Chekov made it, he knew, but maybe it would be enough to bring the kid back to reality.

The subtly spicy steam wafting from the mugs did indeed seem to rejuvenate him. Chekov wrapped his hands around the mug and closed his eyes, savoring the scent. Sulu sipped his own drink, watching Chekov closely for any sign of opening up. 

Halfway through Sulu’s drink and only a few sips into Chekov’s, the kid spoke. “My mother made us sbiten every year for Christmas, with just a little brandy in it as a treat.” Sulu already knew that, having heard many stories about Chekov’s family, but he kept quiet. Chekov continued. “I didn’t like the brandy so much, or vodka when my father let me try it. It tasted bitter, even in the sbiten.”

“Have you heard from them at all? Your family?” Sulu ventured cautiously.

Chekov’s head tipped a little in a nod. “ _Da_. My mother called a few days ago. She was worried about me. She said maybe I should come home; it was too dangerous to stay. There was a place in Kiev that would let me teach physics, do research. She wanted me to go there. But I told her, Starfleet is always dangerous. That doesn’t mean I should run away.”

Chekov’s conversation with his mother sounded all too similar to the one Sulu had had with Ben. They’d both known, going into Starfleet, what the risks would be. They thought they’d been prepared for the worst. But then the worst happened and they realized they weren’t prepared for it at all. Ben was especially afraid of what might happen if Sulu was deployed again; if he died somewhere out in the black and never came home. They hadn’t argued about it, exactly, but it had been a tense conversation. Sulu couldn’t even imagine what Chekov’s conversation might’ve been like. “That’s a good way of thinking about it,” he said. “I think you made the right choice. I’m guessing your mother wasn’t too happy, though.”

“No,” Chekov sighed. “She was not. She’s threatening to pull my sister out of the Academy now.”

“She’s just being overprotective,” Sulu assured him. “Parents always worry about their kids. I’m sure she’ll calm down soon.”

“Maybe.”

“You know, it might help if you paid her a visit. The Enterprise is going to be under repairs for a few more weeks; you’d have plenty of time to—”

“Actually, I’m very busy. In fact, I should probably get back to work.” Chekov stood, pushing the chair back with a screech that rang in Sulu’s ears.

“What? Hey, wait a minute, Pavel—”

Chekov was already headed to the door. Sulu followed him belatedly, reaching for his shoulder. “Pavel, what the hell is going on?”

“Please. I really need to get back to work.”

The door was wide open, Chekov staring at him intently. Sulu didn’t leave. “What work?” 

“I...just…” Chekov swallowed. His eyes strayed away from Sulu to the empty doorway. “I am fixing my mistakes, Mr. Sulu.”

“What mistakes? You didn’t—” Oh. Realization hit Sulu like a stunning blast to the chest. Of course Chekov, who put it on himself to be perfect, to live up to expectations placed on him by his position and his captain, would blame himself. And he’d been doing so to the fullest extent possible for the past two weeks, without any kind of intervention. No wonder his shoulders shook; there was far too much weight for them to bear. 

Chekov’s eyes glistened, and he appeared to be making a conscious effort not to cry in front of company. “Please. I need to get back to work.”

“Oh, Pavel. Come here.” Sulu extended his arm, inviting Chekov in. Finally Chekov met his gaze, and then he was falling into Sulu’s chest, burying his face in the crook of Sulu’s neck. Sulu wrapped his arms tightly around his young co-pilot, the way he’d done countless times for Demora and, on lesser occasions, for Ben. The collar of his shirt grew warm and damp. Despite his own efforts, Sulu felt his own eyes sting with tears. This last mission had been hell on all of them.

Finally Chekov pulled back, sniffling. “I am sorry for your shirt, Hikaru.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing a washing machine won’t fix.” The fact that Chekov was no longer addressing him so formally was well worth a few wrinkles and saltwater stains. “So do you want to talk about it?”

Once again Chekov’s gaze slid away instead of replying, this time to the kitchen table littered with books, papers, and two mugs of sbiten; one empty and one still mostly full. Deciding to take initiative, Sulu grabbed the empty mug and repeated the first steps for making the drink. “I’m going to make a fresh batch. You can have a new mug if you want,” he offered.

Chekov took his still full, lukewarm mug and hovered in the kitchen, seemingly going over the recipe in his head while Sulu worked. A glance at the clock told Sulu it was only four, but the sparse dishes in the sink and mostly full fridge pushed him to speak up anyway. “I didn’t have much to eat today; do you mind if I make something?”

“No, go ahead,” came the muffled reply. A minute later, the honey sweet-spicy smell of sbiten mixed with the savory tang of frying beef and onion patties. Sulu made sure to make more than one person could eat; Chekov’s mother and grandmother might’ve been right about making sure he ate enough. When the patties, along with the accompanying pasta, were finished, Sulu pushed the extra plate towards the boy.

“Here. I made way too much, and there’s no point wasting food.”

“Thank you.” Chekov accepted the plate and fork and half-heartedly picked at his food. Sulu left his own just as untouched, although for him it was more because he wasn’t all that hungry and he had more pressing matters to worry about.

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Chekov to get through even a quarter of his plate, and he didn’t seem to be tasting any of it. That small amount was enough to ease at least a little of the worry knotting Sulu’s stomach, enough to draw Chekov back into conversation.

“So,” he started lamely, and then stopped. As close as they were, he wasn’t really good at this sort of thing. He could cheer Chekov up a little, maybe distract him, but he couldn’t get right down to the heart of the issue to repair it. That was a captain’s quality. The captain wasn’t there, though, and quite frankly was part of the issue, so Sulu pushed through the awkwardness. “I think you know what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. It was _not_ your fault, Pavel.”

Chekov set the plate down on the counter with a clatter. “You don’t know that. I was the Chief Engineer; it was my job to make sure the engines worked. My job! And they broke! I couldn’t stop them from breaking! And then the captain, he… he had to fix my mistakes. But now _I’m_ fixing them.”

“Pavel, you can’t go back in time and undo what happened. And besides, the captain’s actions were his own. He _chose_ to…” For the first time, Sulu realized that he had no idea what happened. Not really. Jim had gone down to Engineering, the power had come back online, and a few minutes Spock had come storming back onto the bridge searching for blood. But it didn’t matter. Whatever had happened, it was not Chekov’s fault. Sulu refused to let him take that responsibility. “He chose to do whatever he did. You didn’t ask him to do it, nobody forced him to. I mean, the guy’s got the self-preservation skills of a toddler. You’re not responsible for him.”

“But I am responsible for the engines. There must’ve been something I missed; if I’d just paid closer attention to Mister Scott, or known more about the warp core, maybe I could’ve prevented all of it. That was what Captain Kirk asked me to do, and I failed.”

“Jim asked you to fill a role you had no experience in, under a lot of pressure and with no time to prepare. He asked too much of you.”

“It shouldn’t have been! I should’ve—”

Sulu gripped Chekov’s shoulder, forcing the young man to look at him. “No. There’s no maybe, there’s no should’ve. You did the best you could. Anyone can see that. Hell, even Scotty said so after we docked, remember?”

Chekov tried to shrug his shoulders, somewhat hindered by Sulu’s tight grip. “Scotty didn’t kill the Captain.”

“Neither did you.”

Chekov’s eyes closed, one hand coming up to hide his face. Bit by bit, the tension under Sulu’s hand relaxed. The shaking, however, increased, until Chekov was full on sobbing. Sulu’s arm slipped all the way around Chekov’s shoulders, pulling him into Sulu’s side. They stood that way in Chekov’s kitchen, with the smell of beef Kotleti and sbiten swirling around them, for a long time. 

The shuddering sobs died away, but this time Chekov didn’t pull back. “I thought we’d never see him again,” he mumbled into Sulu’s shirt. “We’d get a new captain, but it wouldn’t be the same, and maybe they wouldn’t let us all stay together. And it would’ve been my fault.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Sulu reminded him, but he couldn’t soothe all of Chekov’s worries. Mainly because he’d had them himself. The Headquarters themselves had been only partially damaged, but Khan had caused enough harm without achieving his goal. Starfleet was in chaos with the temporary admiralty decimated. Many countries were voicing their doubts about Starfleet as a whole, and there’d been murmurings of disbanding. Even more worrying were the murmurs of war with the Klingons and Romulans— the news of Khan’s attack and the not-so-secret dreadnought had taken a while to reach the respective empires, but many of the ambassadors to both nations had been recalled to their homes or expressed their extreme displeasure at Starfleet’s secret workings. For all of Marcus’ wrongs, he may have been partially right; war seemed almost inevitable. And then, the prospect of facing all this with a new, unfamiliar crew. Without Chekov’s constant paise of his homeland, Uhura’s sly jabs at the Captain expertly designed to bring him down a peg but not by too many, Spock’s dry humor that even Sulu had come to understand, if not appreciate. And without Jim at the helm, maybe sometimes too cocky or clever for his own good, but a good captain and friend nonetheless. Before he’d been promoted to Head Navigator under Pike, Starfleet had been little more than a job for Sulu. A way to fund his botany research, and to make sure Ben and Demora had the best life possible. But the past few years had molded the job into a true calling, accompanied by a second family and the thrill of discovering the unknown. 

Squeezing Chekov’s shoulder, Sulu pulled back a bit to look properly at him. “I know how you feel, though. I don’t like the idea of working with someone else any more than you do. But that’s not going to happen. I heard from Uhura the other day that Jim’s up and about, more or less. By the time the Enterprise is fixed, we’ll have our captain back. He’s not going anywhere, and neither am I. We’re a team, right?”

“ _Da._ A team.” Chekov untangled himself from Sulu’s arm, though it was only to pick up his plate and begin picking at the long-cold potatoes and patties. The fact that he was doing it without Sulu practically forcing him to eat undid the last of Sulu’s anxiety. Through a mouthful of food, Chekov spoke again. “I think maybe it would be good to visit the captain before then.”

“You’re probably right,” Sulu agreed with a half smile. “He’s probably going crazy being cooped up like that. Maybe we can help Bones prevent an early escape attempt.”

“And I could bring him zharkoye! You know, most Russian foods have great healing properties.”

“Is that so?” 

“Oh yes! One of my uncles once came down with a terrible lung disease— the doctors said there was nothing that could be done for him— and after only a few bowls of my aunt’s Solyanka Soup, he was healthy as a horse!”

“Well, then, I guess we should get cooking. _After_ you finish the Kotleti I slaved away making for you.”

“Ach, I wouldn’t call this Kotleti. It’s really just a sad, fat hamburger. Now, you ought to try the Kotleti my mother makes; you’d gain ten pounds from just one plate.”

Sulu chuckled, shaking his head at Chekov’s loyalty to his country. Once the kid had finished his plate, Sulu let him order him around the kitchen, whipping up half a dozen dishes Chekov swore were designed to bring health and long life on its consumers. Now that the light had returned to his eyes, Sulu hoped at least some of the food would go towards Chekov, least of all because Bones might just kill them if they attempted to smuggle fattening home-cooked meals into Jim’s room. Nevertheless, the music from Chekov’s old (Russian-made) radio, the smell of good food, and the chatter of good company helped considerably to brighten both their spirits. That, and the promise that soon they’d reunite with the Enterprise and all her people.


	3. Uhura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are; my favorite leading lady! And boy, does she have some feelings.  
> As usual, I'll be going back and making grammar/spelling changes for the next few days, but really that's just icing on this very, very emotional cake.

Uhura’s first impression of Jim was _asshole_ . Her second impression was _genius asshole_ . Her third impression was _mega-asshole_. And yet somehow, despite everything she thought about him, he proved himself. Not just that he was a capable captain (in her opinion, the Narada incident was as much luck as it was anything else), but that he could actually be a good person when he wanted to be. She and Spock had talked a lot about him in those weeks after, on their slow, limping course back to Earth. Jim had essentially manipulated him into stealing his position, and then walked away from any consequences scot-free. Uhura was furious on Spock’s behalf, even more so because Spock seemed to refuse to be even a little angry at the whole thing. He refused to be angry at Jim. And although he also refused to tell her why, or what exactly had happened on the Narada, he assured her that he harbored no ill-will to the man who’d usurped him and laughed in his face.

Except, that wasn’t completely accurate. In the long, quiet pauses on their trip back to Earth, she returned to that moment after Jim had taken the captaincy. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she hissed, stiff with anger. Jim had looked up at her then, not triumphant or defiant or even smug as she expected him to be. He’d just looked scared.

“Me too,” he’d answered softly, with all the resignation of a man who knows he’s diving down far out of his own depth without so much as a lifeline. Jim Kirk, she learned, was a man who does not gloat over his victories.

He proved that again, when he offered mercy to Nero and his crew, and again when the Admiralty dismissed all charges and formally made him captain. And again, when facing Klingons, and again when dealing with Ferengi, and again and again. Sure, sometimes he would get cocky, overly full of himself. He clearly had a lot to prove to someone; maybe Pike, maybe ghosts, maybe himself. But at the end of the day, Uhura learned, Jim was one to put the needs of others before himself. At any cost.

Out of pure instinct, Uhura followed Spock as he raced off the bridge. Spock didn’t run anywhere unless it was an emergency. It was illogical, he claimed, to waste energy hastening arrival to a destination that was not time-sensitive. Now he was practically sprinting down the halls, with Uhura struggling to keep up behind him. They only paused once, in the turbo lift. Spock didn’t speak at all, except to inquire about the whereabouts of Mr. Scott. _Engineering; warp core access_. 

When they arrived, Uhura expected to find destruction, some kind of vital component now broken, or maybe an injured Scotty. The last thing she expected was to see Spock crouched at the glass doors to the warp core, focused intently on the body on the other side. Jim. The look of him hit Uhura like a sharp kick to the sternum, knocking out all her breath in a sharp gasp. Scotty stood a few feet away, clearly trying and failing to process what was happening. Uhura processed it all too quickly, tears stinging her eyes even as she tried to regain her composure. 

She didn’t see him die. Spock’s body obscured the captain’s face, leaning close into the glass. Always touching and never touched. But she saw Spock’s reaction; the aftermath of Jim’s death. The rage she’d only seen once before, on the Enterprise’s bridge with a grieving Vulcan and a desperate man. Back then she’d thought Spock would kill Jim before he snapped out of it. This time she hoped, with fear and sorrow and rage churning her stomach and clogging her throat, that Spock would kill Khan. That he’d let the rage consume him again, and that this time there’d be no one to stop him.

And then McCoy was hailing the bridge, and there was too much interference to beam back up but maybe they could beam someone down, and it took all Spock’s strength plus a phasor set on the highest stun setting to subdue the man who’d killed— _almost_ killed— Jim Kirk. And even then Uhura contemplated pushing him off the barge and seeing just how far a fall he could survive.

When it was all over, Uhura went home to the apartment she shared with Spock. She showered, changed, ate a stale protein bar without tasting it. Spock had insisted that she sleep, but Spock wasn’t there. Without so much as a glance at the bed, Uhura left to find him.

It wasn’t hard. There was only one place on Earth McCoy trusted to treat Jim: Starfleet’s Academy Hospital. The Intensive Care Unit was on the fifth floor; the waiting room was in the corner of the building, next to a small cafe stocked with complementary coffee and sad-looking produce. Uhura took a coffee and sat in the chair next to Spock, who never once looked at her. He was still wearing his uniform, and his hair looked as windswept as it had when they’d arrived back in the transporter room with Khan in tow. Uhura pushed a dull green apple into his hand.

“Here. Eat.”

Spock jerked and looked down at the apple in surprise, as if the sensation of holding anything was foreign to him. “Thank you, Nyota, but I am not hungry.”

“Bullshit.” 

“I find bovine excrement neither nutritious nor appetizing.”

Uhura pursed her lips. He always did this when he was stressed; fell back on literal definitions and logic. They were the only things that made sense in a world going mad. Uhura felt as though she might go mad herself if Spock didn’t knock it off. “Spock, I know for a fact that you haven’t eaten anything since dinner yesterday.” She glanced at the clock. “Strike that; the day _before_ yesterday. You need to eat.”

Spock followed her gaze, eyebrows rising sharply as he took in the date and time. “It has been some time since my last meal,” he agreed. The apple didn’t get any closer to his mouth. 

Uhura twisted in the chair so that her whole body faced Spock. The Vulcan didn’t move an inch. “Spock. Please. You’re not doing anyone any favors by refusing to eat.”

Twisting the apple in his hands, Spock focused his gaze on the fruit. “It is not refusal,” he said quietly. “It is simply that I find myself unable to perform any self-care until I am satisfied that the captain is stable. It appears that my attachment to Jim has overridden any other priorities. Illogical, I know, and yet I do not know how to overcome this obstacle. ”

Uhura sighed. Reaching out across the foot of space between them felt like reaching out from another planet, but finally her hand found Spock’s. It was warm, as always, and the dry heat enveloped her fingers as she intertwined them with his. The apple lay in his other hand, forgotten. “That’s not an obstacle, Spock. That’s being _worried_ about someone else. That’s being human.”

“Clearly, it is a human trait, as you have similarly neglected your own needs in order to be here. And again, I do not understand why you are here, or myself. It would not change the outcome of Jim’s treatment. Yet here we are.”

“It wouldn’t change it,” Uhura agreed. “But you’re his friend. And so am I. So here we are.”

Spock was still contemplating his apple rather than eating it, and Uhura’s coffee had gone cold. She got up, squeezing Spock’s hand once in reassurance, and returned with two hot coffees and another apple for herself. One protein bar wasn’t going to cut it, especially if they were going to be there all night. 

“Nyota,” Spock murmured. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I will meditate for a while. Please wake me if there is any development in the captain’s status.”

“Of course.”

Dark eyes closed, and Spock’s breathing deepened into the soft, even rhythm of meditation. For Vulcans, meditation wasn’t quite sleep, but it wasn’t meditation as humans performed it either. It was something in between; a semi-conciousness, capable of calmly processing whatever turmoil the day had brought. Considering all that had happened, Uhura suspected he’d be meditating for a while. She settled back in her chair, alternating between eating and drinking without processing either. Her own sort of meditation, in a way.

It was strange, she realized, how quickly things could change. Only a few years ago she’d loathed Jim Kirk and everything he stood for: arrogant, egotistical cadets who only rose to where they were because of a family name. And then he’d gone and flipped the script, proved himself to Spock and to his crew and to her. After he’d received the captaincy, officially, he’d reached out to her and offered her a position. He’d clearly expected her to say no, which was why she’d said yes. He’d made sure to address her with all the respect her station was owed and then some, both on and off duty. On her birthday she’d found a copy of _The Awakening_ in fluent Swahili and a small stuffed cow on her desk. Her brief passings with Jim became more than formalities; she started joining Spock on his informal lunch meetings with the captain, or lounging in Jim’s quarters while the two of them played chess. Then she was seeking Jim out on her own, just to talk about literature or languages or the latest gossip. They confided in each other, built trust up brick by brick. Maybe the wall wasn’t as high as the one he shared with Spock, but the foundations were just as strong. Jim Kirk, the sneaky son of a bitch, had gone from nuisance to friend, and Uhura hadn’t even noticed. 

Maybe that was the most infuriating part. She hadn’t wanted to like Kirk, not from the minute she met him. He’d been charming, in that bastard kind of way, but then he’d thrown himself into a fight he had no chance of winning with reckless glee, and she’d known to stay as far away from him as possible. Not because he was a playboy, or because he couldn’t pick his fights, but that he wouldn’t. He was arrogant and reckless enough to see a fight coming and throw himself into it, rather than running away. Hendroff had broken his nose and he’d laughed, spitting blood. And yet he’d been just kind enough, respectful enough, that Uhura would forget all about how much of an asshole he really was until he went and did something stupid and reminded her all over again.

But no, that wasn’t really the worst part. The worst part was that now, in the captain’s chair, all his stupidity and arrogance and recklessness went to the sake of his crew. He’d turned blind eyes, disregarded regulations, even broke Starfleet's first law and primary mission for the sake of his first officer. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his crew. And that was the worst part, because a captain like that wouldn’t be captain for long. 

Uhura’s thoughts drifted to Spock, and the tangle of emotions there. Her relationship with him had never been normal by the usual standards; teacher and cadet first, then commanding officer and ensign. Human and Vulcan. She never expected him to love her the way others might expect; that was clear from the beginning. And the way he did love her— quietly, with every syllable of her name spoken reverently and with every brief touch passing an entire conversation between them— could be enough for her. Was enough. But Spock had grown close to the captain, too. In a different way, with far fewer kisses and far more dry remarks exchanged like white elephants, and somehow just as intimate as Uhura’s own relationship. The moment when Kirk died echoed in her mind, white hot. The hand, falling from the glass. Spock’s scream. The way his voice cracked, the venomous fury etched in every word. His fist, pounded into Khan’s face until both were marred with a gruesome patchwork of green and red. The only other person who’d spurred Spock to such a display had been his mother and, whatever else he might say of his human side, it was no secret that they’d been close. That they’d loved each other. Uhura wondered if, should she die, Spock would allow his emotions to again control him, rather than logic. Her stomach churned with the instinctive answer, aided by a flare of something else. Jealousy, maybe, or envy. The two so often went hand in hand. 

Uhura drowned those feelings with the last of her coffee, once again long cold. It felt taboo to think like that when Kirk’s life hung by a thread. A slowly strengthening thread maybe, if McCoy’s medical prowess came through, but a thread nonetheless. She’d save her jealousy and envy and anger and everything else for when he was healed. Or conscious, at least. He’d never been one to pull his punches, and he didn’t appreciate when others did either.

Beside her, Spock sat still as a stone. The apple sat in the palm of his hand, shined spotless from all his handling. Uhura went through another cup of coffee, this one half full of cream and sugar, and forced down another protein bar. Her knees felt stiff, so she paced for a while. To the doorway of the waiting room and back, then all the way down the hall. The nurses at the station gave her no more than a passing glance, too tired or too used to worried visitors to be curious. Many of the rooms Uhura passed were full to capacity. She didn’t recognize any of the names pinned to the boards. That itself was a relief, if a small one. Eventually the pacing wore her out, and Uhura returned to her post in the chair. Somehow it was less comfortable than it had been when she’d left.

Dawn was crawling sleepily across the city when McCoy finally appeared in the waiting room doorway. Dark shadows deepened the red lining of sleep-deprived eyes, and the stubble across his jaw highlighted his usually round cheekbones. In his flowing surgeon’s gown, he looked like the grim reaper himself. Uhura stood to meet him, legs and back protesting stiffly.

“Is he—”

“He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. He’ll be fine.” The _probably_ hung at the end of the sentence like a dead man swinging, but neither one of them dared speak it. It was enough to know that Kirk wouldn’t be leaving them anytime soon. 

Uhura turned to tell Spock and realized that he’d slipped from meditation into full-on sleep. She’d learned long ago to tell the difference. His chin dipped just slightly towards his chest, and his lips parted to let an undignified drop of drool gather at their edge. “I’ll let him know when he wakes up,” Uhura decided. “But do you mind if… can I see him?”

“His immune system is shot to hell; you’ll have to wear a mask and gown, and go through a sterilizer.”

“That’s fine.”

Uhura followed McCoy through the maze of halls to a room tucked away on the other side of the building. As instructed, she donned the mask and gown. Inside a small chamber that was far too like the one he’d died in, a fine mist sprayed her and then a hot wind scoured her clean. McCoy shadowed her as she stepped inside.

As bad as she expected Kirk to look, he looked worse. Like McCoy, red lined his eyes, but this was the bright, inflamed red of sickness. The rest of him was incredibly pale. She didn’t let herself look at the biomonitors on the wall, but she couldn’t ignore the IV lines in his arms, nor the tube down his throat. The same raw grief that had overwhelmed her in engineering threatened to do so again now. She sucked in a breath and forced it down, along with her coffee and the protein bars that tried to make a reappearance. _Calm, composed,_ she reminded herself. Everything a Starfleet officer should be. Everything a friend needed to be.

“Can he hear me?” She asked, without looking away. 

McCoy shifted beside her. “It’s possible. Hard to tell what he’s aware of, this far out of it, but it’s worth a shot.” His voice didn’t crack, but Uhura could hear the fractures. 

Uhura stepped closer, closer, until she was standing next to the bed. The linins crinkled under her where she sat. Leaning in close as she dared, so there would be no mistaking through the mask. “You better make it through this, Kirk. For McCoy’s sake, and for Spock’s. They’ve gone through too much for you to throw it all away. You need to get through this, because if you don’t then I will find whatever fluffy cloud your ass is sitting on and personally drag you back down here. I don’t care how tempting that light is; we’re not finished with you yet.”


	4. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this one's a doozy!  
> Thank y'all for being patient with me! I'm going to be a bit busy for the next few weeks, so expect the next (and second to last!) chapter to be out sometime between next week and the end of October.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you're interested in beta'ing for this fic, please comment or message me at sourb0i on tumblr! There's only one or two chapters left but they're the hardest, and I'd appreciate another set of eyes.

The problem with Jim was that he had no regard for his own life. The first time they met, he was sporting the swollen black eye and broken nose he’d earned the night before. He’d been sporting a hangover, too, but he took a swig from Leonard’s flask anway, and on the way to San Francisco he’d let slip that the only reason he was on the shuttle at all was a dare. Over the course of their friendship, Leonard had watched Jim argue with professors, slip through the thin loopholes of Starfleet rules, and throw himself into every fight he knew he couldn’t win. And being the good doctor and the good friend that he was, Leonard always tried to clean up the aftermath. Most of the time, he succeeded; Jim was a tough kid, and his faith in Bones— while overplayed— wasn’t completely unwarranted. But not this time.

The fact of the matter was that Jim had died. No ifs, ands, or buts. His heart and breathing had stopped, and brain functions were almost nonexistent; turning off the last lights and locking up on the way out. He’d only been brought to the med bay for Leonard’s official confirmation. Leonard had been ready to give it, too— and then drink himself into next year— when that damned tribble had started purring. It only took a second for him to realize exactly what that meant. Hope.

The next fourteen hours were stressful enough to give him a year’s worth of gray hairs. The wait for Spock and Uhura felt like days, not minutes. Deriving a serum from Khan’s blood was no easier; Leonard couldn’t help but second-guess himself every step of way. He needed more time to study Khan, to study his blood’s effects on the Tribble, to analyze what it might do to a body as fucked up as Jim’s. He needed time he didn’t have. Even in a cryo-tube, Jim could only be preserved for so long. Living people were easy to keep alive. Dead people were not. 

When the serum had been administered and Jim’s vitals were stable— still too low, too slow for his liking, and there were signs of a fever, but stable nonetheless— Nurse Chapel relieved him from duty. She had good arguments: he’d been awake too long, and had barely eaten that whole time. When gentle coaxing didn’t work, she pulled rank. That was one of the reasons Leonard liked her— had picked her to be his second. She wasn’t afraid to cite regulation to get him off shift, no more than Leonard was afraid to cite regulation to Jim after an all-nighter on the bridge. Leonard let himself be chased out, but only as far as the ICU’s commissary. Both Uhura and Spock were waiting in the visitor’s room next door. They looked tired. Spock was either meditating deeply or outright asleep. Uhura was on the edge of consciousness, but she stirred when Leonard paused at the doorway.. He didn’t know her particularly well, and he wouldn’t go so far to call Spock his friend— at least not to his face. They were Jim’s friends, though, and that was all that mattered now. 

Uhura was the first into Jim’s room, just for a few minutes. Leonard gave them as much privacy as he could. Spock entered just as she left, hesitating at the foot of Jim’s bed. Worry was all too easy to read on his face, even concealed behind a sterile mask and Vulcan control. 

“He’ll be fine, Spock,” Leonard assured without having to be asked.

“Of course he will,” Spock replied. “You have proved yourself to be an exemplary doctor, and although Jim’s immune system is compromised, he is otherwise a healthy individual for his age and species.”

Leonard understood this explanation to be more for Spock’s benefit than his. Still, his assessment of Leonard’s skills caught him off balance. In the past their relationship, whatever it was, had been defined by criticism and barbed remarks. Nothing resembling praise had ever passed between them. And worst of all, Leonard wasn’t all that sure this praise had been earned. He coughed awkwardly. “Um. Thanks.”

“Gratitude is neither logical nor necessary.”

“‘Course it isn’t.” 

They both watched Jim in silence; the slow, but even rhythm of his chest in time with his equally slow heartbeat on the monitor above the bed. It was odd; when he’d been dead, he’d still had that faint smile on his face, like he’d gotten the last laugh anyway. Now that he was alive, blankness replaced any trace of lingering emotion. Not for the first time, Leonard wondered if he’d been too late; if they only succeeded in prolonging the inevitable. It was entirely possible that there was too much brain damage to bring back anything resembling Jim. The monitor projecting his brain activity— slow and steady, as with everything else— only provided a small comfort.

The sound of slippered footsteps in the hall jolted Leonard out of his spiral. “Listen, Spock, I’m off duty, and Nurse Chapel will eat me alive if she finds out I’m still here.”

“If you do not mind, Doctor, I will stay here. I anticipate there will be much work to be done in the wake of Harrison’s attack, but much of it can be done here.”

“Be my guest.” Technically visiting hours were from ten to two, but Leonard had more than enough favors he could pull to grant Spock whatever time he wanted. “There’s a call button on the side of the bed. If you leave, make sure you re-sanatize when you come back in. And take care of yourself, too; I won’t hesitate to put you on medical leave if I have to.”

Spock regarded him for a moment, and Leonard could swear he saw something akin to a smile flash across his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Leonard returned with a brief, tired smile of his own. “What was it you said? Thanks are neither logical nor necessary.”

\--------------------------------------

The days fell into a rhythm, slow and steady punctuated with frantic, erratic episodes. Bones alternated between sleeping at his apartment and sleeping in the lounge at the hospital; on those nights, no amount of cajoling from Chapel or M’Benga or anyone else could convince him to leave. They didn’t try all that hard, either. Between Jim’s condition and the constant influx of victims from Khan’s rampage, they had enough work without looking after Leonard too. That was fine. He was used to looking after himself. 

Jim’s fever spiked five times in the first week. His white blood cell count skyrocketed, which might’ve been a good sign, if it weren’t for the fact that his immune system had always been fucked even before it was infected with super-blood. Now it was attacking Jim himself which, in addition to the radiation poisoning, put his body under severe stress. His heart stopped twice that first week, and once the next week. Every time Leonard closed his eyes, an image appeared of Jim laid out on a slab, just as cold and lifeless as he’d been in the Enterprise’s med bay. He didn’t close his eyes much.

Towards the end of the second week, Jim improved. The inflammation and fever went down. His white blood cell count stayed high, but they no longer appeared to be attacking Jim himself or the remains of the serum that had been bolstering the rest of his cells’ regeneration. Cautiously, Leonard authorized moving Jim out of the clean room and into one of the standard ICU rooms. The day after they moved him, Spock all but burst into the room, looking as panicked as Leonard had ever seen him. 

“You’ve moved him,” Spock observed. It was clear what he’d thought: Jim had up and died, and no one had bothered to tell him.

“His immune system is strong enough now that he doesn’t need a clean room. Not that I’d go around coughing on him, mind,” Leonard said by way of explanation. 

Spock nodded solemnly. “I will not.”

“Spock.” Leonard risked a plunge into the breach and placed a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.” Whether or not Spock believed him, Leonard couldn’t tell. Whether Leonard believed himself, he couldn’t tell either. All he could do was lie and hope he wouldn’t be proven a liar.

In his usual theatrics, Jim woke up five days after they moved him. His brain activity had been steadily growing stronger, so Leonard shouldn’t have been surprised, but he couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him. Jim’s eyes were as clear and blue as Leonard remembered them, and, like always, they immediately sought him out. Leonard wanted so badly to start chewing Jim out then and there. He channeled his energy into putting up an imitation of his usual bedside manner instead. Jim didn’t need to know how bad it had gotten— not yet.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to pretend for long. Spock, who’d spent almost as much time with Jim as Leonard had, practically leaped forward to take up most of Jim’s attention and energy. Leonard gave them as much privacy as he could while checking Jim’s vitals (again), and by the time they were done Jim was about ready to pass out again. Leonard let him.

The next week featured a stream of visitors: Spock, Uhura, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov. Most of the visits didn’t last more than a few minutes, since that was about the extent to which Jim could stay awake, although he was getting stronger every day. To his credit, Leonard left them alone when he could. The crew needed this as much as he did: seeing Jim alive, awake. It was one thing to read a chart or be told second-hand that he’d be fine. It was another thing entirely to see it in person. The image of Jim’s body on a slab didn’t stop materializing when Leonard closed his eyes, but it was easier to reconcile when he could open them again and see Jim sound and well. 

On a rare day when Spock had been pulled into ‘Fleet meetings and Jim was awake enough to sit up and scroll through a PADD, Leonard finished his checks and lingered at the door. 

“Bones, you’re staring again,” Jim said without looking up from the screen. 

“Sorry,” Leonard muttered. “I’m just. I’m glad you’re back with us.”

“I know. But you can relax; I’m not going to keel over the second you turn your back.”

That was exactly what Leonard was afraid of. “I just spent the last three weeks patching you up; I want to make sure all my hard work doesn’t go to waste.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “It won’t. Look, I’m being a model patient, aren’t I?”

He was, but that probably had less to do with his willingness to be a model patient and more to do with the fact that he didn’t have enough energy to cause trouble. Yesterday had been the first time he’d stayed awake all through visiting hours. And even then, he still found ways to make an annoyance of himself. But that wasn’t the point. “I’m serious, Jim. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Doing what?”

“You know exactly what.” The sharpness of Leonard’s voice surprised both of them. Jim finally looked up from his PADD, face full of concern. “Honestly, what the hell were you thinking, going into a fully active warp core without any kind of shielding?”

“The needs of the many, Bones. I couldn’t just let the Enterprise die.”

“Damnit Jim, this is your life we’re talking about! You can’t just keep throwing it away!”

“I don’t know why you’re so freaked out about this. I’ve had close calls before, and I’ve always made it out fine.”

“If it weren’t for Spock and Uhura and that fucking tribble, you’d be dead, Jim.”

Jim tried to joke. “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You had something to do with it too, you know. You always put me back together.”

“This time, sure, but what about next time? Or the time after that? I don’t know how many miracles I have left in me, and then what? How many more do-overs do I get until I have to bury you? Jesus Christ Jim, I thought you were dead. They brought your body up to the med bay, and it would’ve been my job to sign your fucking death certificate.”

“It’s not your job to look after me all the time.”

“Of course it’s my job! I’m your goddamn CMO, but more importantly, I’m your friend. So it’s my responsibility to make sure you don’t end up killing yourself, but I can’t do that when you’re throwing yourself at every chance you get to do exactly that.”

Jim had the grace to look appalled. “I’m not _trying to_ — I don’t have a death wish!”

"Yeah, well it doesn’t seem like you have much of a will to live, either. What exactly did you think would happen when you went into the warp core?”

“I…” Jim’s gaze slid from Leonard’s to a point on the floor. “I didn’t see any other choice. I was dead either way. The only question was whether the rest of the crew would join me.”

“Jim.” Bones stepped closer and then, against his better judgement, sat on the bed. “I’m not going to ask you to promise me not to do that again, because I know you won’t keep it. But please, for the love of God, at least think before you go jumping in front of any more trains, because I don’t ever want to see you on a slab again. Once was enough for a lifetime.”

“I’ll try,” Jim answered quietly. He glanced at Leonard, swallowing heavily. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to go through that. I never wanted to… if there’d been another way, I would’ve done it.”

“I know.” Leonard sighed heavily. The kid might be responsible for most of Leonard’s gray hairs, but he made up for every single one with unwavering leadership, friendship, and many long nights sharing a bottle of whatever alcohol they could find. Hell, if it weren’t for him, Leonard probably would’ve dropped out of Starfleet long ago; heaven knew he didn’t stay for the love of space. “Just. Maybe a captain should go down with his ship, but the Enterprise wouldn’t be the same without her captain. I know I wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Jim laughed halfheartedly. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me, Bones.”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you in the land of the living, I’ll be the mushiest man in the damn galaxy. Don’t think I won’t,” Leonard threatened. 

“Bones, please.”

“I mean it.” Leonard stood, towering over Jim. “And while I’m at it, eat your damn vegetables. Your body needs the extra vitamins.”

“Alright, mom. Jeez.” Jim rolled his eyes again, but a tired smile edged around his lips. “Do I get a cookie if I finish my whole plate?”

“No.” Gathering up his things, Leonard headed out the door, calling over his shoulder, “But I’ll know if you don’t. And I’m not afraid to bust out the hypo.” Jim’s exasperated groan followed him into the hall. It was music to Leonard’s ears.


	5. Spock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is, in every sense of the word, illogical.

If, to coin a human expression, a dictionary utilized pictures in its definitions, there would almost certainly be a picture of Jim Kirk next to the word ‘illogical’. This was a conclusion Spock had come to when, after his admittedly hard-fought failure, Jim had applied to take the Kobayashi Maru a second time, and all the rest of his encounters with Jim only solidified that conclusion. He made irrational, reckless choices based on what he called instinct. His self preservation was almost nonexistent, and his respect for Starfleet regulation was similarly absent. Despite their rough initial interactions, Jim apparently harbored no ill feelings towards Spock. Quite the opposite, in fact. And, perhaps most illogically, Spock found himself reciprocating. There was something enticing about Jim’s irrationality; the way he joked in the heat of battle or brought down Spock’s king on the chessboard with a smirk and an unexpected play. He’d explained it to Spock, once. “You play like a Vulcan- logically. So it’s only logical that, to beat you, I have to play illogically.” That seemed to be the way Jim approached life itself: when all evidence pointed to one conclusion, Jim would come to an entirely different, illogical, irrational, and usually correct one. Which was why, when faced with Jim’s death, Spock felt his world shatter. No one could cheat death, not even Jim. Not this time.

And then he had done it anyway. Spock had seen Jim in the med bay many times over their missions together, but none gave him as much relief as when he’d stepped through the disinfection chamber and spotted the steady rise and fall of Jim’s chest. It was illogical, Spock knew. Doctor McCoy was, for all his faults, a capable doctor and a good friend. If he said Jim would pull through, then he was right. Still, Spock couldn’t have truly believed him until he saw it for himself. He needed some kind of assurance to replace the memory of Jim’s hand sliding from the glass. 

The next few weeks put a strain on Spock’s claim that Vulcans needed little sleep to function. Khan’s attack had left a hurricane of chaos, and the Enterprise was right at the eye of it. In the captain’s absence, it fell to Spock to repair the damage as best he could. When he wasn’t meeting admirals or ambassadors or chiefs of staff, he was filling out paperwork in a chair by Jim’s bed. It felt wrong to do it anywhere else, to leave Jim alone. Illogical as such feelings were, Spock had learned not to ignore them when it came to Jim. And, two weeks after the attack and Jim’s brush with death, Spock’s dedication paid off. 

The moment Jim stirred, inhaling sharply as though waking from a nightmare, Spock was on his feet. McCoy had noticed it too, and Spock was sure that if the phrase ‘melting in relief’ were literal, the doctor would’ve been a puddle on the floor. While he fussed around Jim’s bed, Spock stepped forward. An echo of Jim’s usual cocky, mischievous smile ghosted over his face. Spock felt, suddenly, that the phrase ‘melting in relief’ might almost be applied to himself as well. And then Jim, ever illogical, was thanking  _ him _ for saving his life. As if Spock would’ve—  _ could’ve _ — done anything else. It was irrational and unnecessary, and those easy dismissals stuck in Spock’s throat. “You are welcome, Jim.” he said, because what else could he say but the truth?

Although Jim was now awake and out of danger, Spock continued to do most of his work in the hospital. He’d grown accustomed to the environment, to the sound of Jim’s heart monitor and the slight rise and fall of his chest as he filled out reports and signed forms. The only change was that now, at the end of the day, McCoy ushered Spock out with his usual, gentle concern disguised as gruff indifference. Occasionally Nyota would pry Spock away from his work for lunch or a quiet walk through the undamaged part of the city, and of course the Federation had no shortage of excuses for calling Spock into a meeting. But, as always, he eventually returned to Jim’s side.

Most of the time, Jim was sleeping. It was to be expected. When he was awake, though, he seemed more subdued than usual. At first Spock thought it might be a side effect of his ordeal and the subsequent treatment. Recovering would take a great deal of energy, altering Jim’s personality as he channeled his usual vitality into healing himself. As the weeks wore on, though, Jim’s demeanor didn’t improve. Not around Spock, anyway. And perhaps more alarmingly, Nyota appeared to be affected as well. While she’d always respected Spock’s need for emotional boundaries, she never shied away from expressing herself freely. Now she was restrained in their conversations, and often looked on the verge of saying something important only to hold back. Between the two of them, Spock felt at a distinct disadvantage; in this one instance, he thought perhaps the expression of emotion would be preferable to their current behavior.

At last he decided to confront the problem directly. “Nyota,” he said one evening over dinner. It had been his turn to cook and, in an attempt to preemptively pacify Nyota for the coming conversation, he prepared a lamb stew from Johannasburg she’d once mentioned missing, as well as vegetable samoosas for himself. 

Nyota looked up from her plate, sensing the weight in Spock’s voice. “Spock,” she replied cautiously.

“It has come to my attention that you’ve been behaving differently. Towards me.” He’d prepared talking points beforehand, but they all fled his mind when faced with the concern written over Nyota’s face. “I feel-” yes, that was good. “I feel as though you have become distant. Even when we spend time together, as now, it seems like you would rather be elsewhere. I am concerned. For you. Is it… is it something I have done to upset you?”

“Oh Spock,” Nyota sighed. Without even saying it, he already knew the answer. “No. It’s not— well. It’s complicated. Everything’s complicated now. But it’s not you. Or at least, not only you. It’s me, too.”

If Spock had been looking for a straight, uncomplicated answer, this was not it. Nyota sounded sure that this explanation was at least somewhat satisfactory, when in fact it didn’t explain anything in the slightest. Spock tried again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I know that these past few weeks have been difficult for you, as they have been for me. However, I believe that we can work through whatever problems arise, as we have always done. Together.”

“That’s just it, Spock. I don’t know if we can. Look, I’m sure you think you love me, and maybe on some level you really do. But I’ve seen the way you are with Jim. The way you both are, together. I saw…” she didn’t need to say it for Spock to know what she saw. He could hear himself screaming Khan’s name well enough. Nyota continued with a small sigh. “I love you, Spock. You know I do. I just don’t know if you really feel the same way. And until we both are certain, I just don’t think this— us— is a good idea.”

Spock’s first impulse was to protest. Of course he loved her, of course he returned her feelings. The impulse only made it halfway to his lips before something stopped him. Something rational, and yet completely illogical. Something buried deep in the complex tangle of emotions surrounding Jim and his near-death. And that one single hesitation told him everything he needed to know about Nyota’s suspicions. “I...I agree. Perhaps some time apart would allow me to reflect more deeply on my feelings towards you, and towards Jim. And I am sorry, for any anguish I may have caused you with my behavior. It was never and never will be my intent to harm you.”

Nyota reached across the table to rest her hand over Spocks. She’d become quite adept at the Vulcan shielding technique, protecting her thoughts and feelings from Spock when she knew they would be unwelcome or overwhelming. Now, a faint stream trickled from her fingers to Spock’s. Regret, melancholy, worry. Rueful happiness, too, in faint traces, like the lingering scent of perfume long after the wearer has left the room. “I know, Spock,” she murmured. “I know.”

As hard as the conversation with Nyota was, the one with Jim was ten times harder. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. Between Spock’s work and Jim’s recovery, the days were all but packed. And even if Spock could find the time, he had no idea how to bring it up. Relationships were Nyota’s expertise, not his. And although Vulcans prided themselves on their mastery of emotions, expressing them was another matter entirely. In his meditations, Spock returned over and over to the advice his father had given him after Spock’s mother died: “What is necessary is never unwise”. Spock had needed, then, to process his anger and his grief, and to express it. Now he needed to express his feelings for Jim. If only it were so easily done as said. 

In the end, it was Jim who brought it up. He’d been allowed a PADD, finally, and was doing some light work under McCoy and Spock’s close supervision. Or at least, he was supposed to be working. Instead he was staring at the screen and clearly not reading any of it. He’d been doing so for the past half hour. “Hey, Spock,” he said quietly.

Spock, having been watching Jim and thus accomplishing far less work than usual, instantly set his PADD aside. “Jim?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“I believe you already are.”

Jim huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I guess I am.” He paused again, leaning back in his bed. “It’s...I want to talk to you about what happened. In the warp core.”

Spock forced his breathing to remain even. “Of course, Jim.”

“When I was… when I thought I was… when I was dying, I said some things. Things I wanted to tell you, but didn’t know how to say. I still don’t know how to say them.”

A surge of anxiety swelled in Spock’s mind. There were a number of things Jim had said in that chamber, and the idea of addressing any of them made Spock want to enact that human phrase ‘run for the hills’. With some effort, he soothed the turbulent emotions. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I wanted— want— you to know…” Jim dragged his gaze up to meet Spock’s. His face was full of intensity, the same look he had in the warp core. As though, if he didn’t say what needed to be said, it would kill him. Spock’s breath caught, just for a moment, in his throat. “I want you to know exactly how I feel about you. What you mean to me. Why I couldn’t…”

_ Why I couldn’t let you die _ . Spock could recognize, now, the precise manner of Jim’s feelings for him. They were mirrored in Spock’s own affection, reflecting from one to the other and back again, and the effect was blinding. The clarity struck Spock like a man stepping out into the sun after a lifetime in darkness. The sudden overwhelming emotions, the brightness, the vibrancy of it all, terrified him. He wanted to retreat back into the darkness of ignorance, where it was safe and he was in control. 

Jim sighed heavily, turning away. “Forget it. You’ve got enough on your plate already.”

The spark in Jim’s eyes was dying, just as before. Spock realized that if he didn’t master himself now, if he didn’t reach out— reach through the glass— to Jim, he might never get another chance. Hesitantly, he placed his hand over Jim’s. It was cool, but warm life pulsed under his fingers. “I understand, Jim,” he said, putting as much meaning into the words as he could, pushing the meaning through the touch that connected them. “I know why you came back for me. And why I had to bring you back.”

He felt Jim’s alarm echoing back, all his anxieties and hopes and apprehensions. Again, Spock’s feelings mirrored Jim’s own. It was all too much. Jim’s emotions, and his own. The understanding, and the fear that accompanied it. The memory of rage and grief rushed forward, overwhelming everything else.

“Spock…”

Spock pulled his hand away, allowing himself a breath to regain his composure. “I do know. But I cannot...I do not know if I understand.”

Confusion and hurt mingled in Jim’s voice, strangling it. “What?”

“As you said, I have many things on my plate. I need time to process. To master my emotions.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Jim…” Spock struggled to find a way for Jim to understand. “Do you remember the day I lost my planet?”

“I try not to,” Jim muttered. “But yeah.”

“I became emotionally compromised, due to both the planet’s destruction and the more personal loss of my mother. I could not control myself.”

Jim’s hand rose to his throat, rubbing over the long-healed bruises there. The bruises Spock had left. Another storm of guilt tore through Spock. “Yeah, I remember.”

Pushing the guilt down and away, Spock forced himself to continue. “When you died, it was as though I’d lost my planet all over again. I let my emotions rule my actions, and I almost lost you in the process. I almost lost myself. And I do not know if I could do that again.”

“You won’t have to, Spock. I already promised Bones I’d try not to die anymore.”

“I don’t doubt your intentions. But you cannot promise that. Not truly.”

“Maybe not, but I’m promising it anyway. Whatever happens, you’re not going to lose me again.” This time it was Jim reaching out, radiating courage and confidence where he gripped Spock’s hand. That confidence terrified Spock. Jim had so much faith in him, and Spock had no idea how he could ensure that faith was not misplaced. He’d already failed to do so once, and had nearly lost Jim as a result; he couldn’t stand to do so again. 

“Jim, please—”

“You won’t lose me,” Jim repeated. It was completely illogical. No one could truly control their own death, no matter how much they tried. And yet Jim felt so sure that he could that Spock almost believed it. “But I don’t want to lose you, either.”

“You could never lose me.”

A smile played across Jim’s face. “Promise?”

Once again, it was illogical. This wasn’t something Spock could promise. But Jim was watching him expectantly, already knowing what Spock’s answer would be. “Of course. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this one! I'm considering one final chapter from Jim's perspective, but let me know what you guys think.


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